


forgot just what it was that i had needed

by caelestys



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-27
Updated: 2014-12-27
Packaged: 2018-03-03 20:47:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2886992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caelestys/pseuds/caelestys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt: <i>Brad/Nate, nostalgia, canon.</i></p><p>He doesn’t know how to tell Brad that his first instinct, when he first heard fireworks the year after he got home, was to clap his hands over his ears and duck for cover. He doesn’t know how to tell him that his second was to check on his TL, to make sure he was okay. Sometimes Nate’s memories of OIF are so tangled up in Brad’s blue eyes, his long, careful fingers spread over maps and trackers, the sheen of sweat over his brow, that Nate can’t tell what’s real and what’s not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	forgot just what it was that i had needed

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know much about PTSD, so I'm just flying by the seat of my pants based on what I've read/studied. Apologies for inaccuracies.
> 
> For [wheresmygoddamnshoe](http://wheresmygoddamnshoe.tumblr.com/)'s prompt: Brad/Nate, nostalgia, canon.

It’s Brad’s turn to host the Bravo 2 reunion, which doesn’t explain why, six hours into the BBQ-cum-house party, he is nowhere to be seen. Nate’s feeling pleasantly buzzed, but he’s starting to get a little pissed off—Brad’s been silently slipping from rooms when Nate walks in and, failing that, carefully avoiding eye contact when all exits are blocked. Nate’s had just about enough.

The guys are sprawled haphazardly around Brad’s tiny living room, hooting and hollering as Ray drunkenly describes his latest run in with a hooker and an undercover cop with waving hands. Nate almost feels bad for Brad’s next door neighbours—the guys could probably be heard three states over right now—but this anger is strange and uncharacteristic, lighting a flickering fire in his bones. The alcohol is just making everything worse, and suddenly, he needs to step outside to take a breath.

His feet find the porch, then the driveway, then he’s at the mailbox, and he might as well keep going, so he meanders down the first sandy path he comes across. Belatedly, Nate realizes he left his shoes kicked off inside the door of Brad’s place, but he can hear the soft splash of waves and smell sea salt in the air, and Brad’s weatherboard house is just a dark silhouette behind him, and he just doesn’t want to turn back, so he just keeps walking until he sees Brad’s dark shape appear over the rise of a grassy dune.

He thinks Brad’s turned his head to look at him, and he stops, still feeling the remnants of his nine bottles of Corona buzzing through his bloodstream. It’s too late to turn back, so he flops two feet away from Brad in the sand.

Brad doesn’t say anything for a long moment, and Nate ponders going back and joining the party, ponders picking up his shit and flouncing out like a sixteen year old girl, but then Brad clears his throat and takes a long pull of his Corona.

"I could never get used to the quiet," Brad says, haltingly, picking at the ragged edges of the label on his bottle. He doesn’t look at Nate. "The sand, the heat, everything else… it’s the same, but different, just different enough that I could get used to it."

He always was a fidgeter, and Nate hates that he knows that, hates that he knows things about his TL that he shouldn’t, hates that he knows things he never should have been paying attention to.

"The quiet, though. The quiet makes everything else stand out. There were days, back in Iraq, where bombs just ended up sounding like rain."

Brad’s voice is low and husky like he’s smoked a whole pack of cigarettes, and he speaks slowly, like he’s assessing and reassessing his sentences in his head before he lets them out. He’s always been like that, calculating, in control. Maybe too in control, Nate thinks semi-viciously, sifting sand between his fingers.

"Now… now I hear someone slam a door, or I hear bullets on TV, and I just…" Brad pauses, then says, sounding frustrated, "I fucking freak out. And I know it’s normal, but I just…"

Nate doesn’t have anything to say to that. He doesn’t know how to tell Brad that his first instinct, when he first heard fireworks the year after he got home, was to clap his hands over his ears and duck for cover. He doesn’t know how to tell him that his second was to check on his TL, to make sure he was okay. Sometimes Nate’s memories of OIF are so tangled up in Brad’s blue eyes, his long, careful fingers spread over maps and trackers, the sheen of sweat over his brow, that Nate can’t tell what’s real and what’s not.

But Brad beats him to it.

"But most of all, I don’t like that the first thing that occurs to me is to check if you’re okay. You’re just my lieutenant, right? And I keep telling myself that it was only because of that. The platoon needed you alive. You were the only thing that makes sense."

"Brad, I don’t -"

"But the truth is… the truth is, I need you alive. And that scares the shit out of me.”

The sound of crashing waves nearly drown out Brad’s voice--would, if Nate wasn’t listening so closely. He can feel his heartbeat through his ears.

"So why have you been avoiding me all night? Goddamn it, Brad, I feel like you hate the sight of me."

Brad makes a wounded noise. “I don’t, Nate, I promise—I thought it would go away, after I got home. After you went off to Cambridge. But it’s been two years, and it hasn’t, and I don’t—I still—”

Nate shifts closer to him on the sand and pulls his beer away.

"Brad," he says, softly. He doesn’t know what to say, and the words come to him in a halting staccato. "Avoiding me isn’t going to solve anything."

"Clearly," Brad scoffs, avoiding eye contact. "Because it hasn’t gone away yet."

Nate can smell beer on his breath, and the hope that Brad isn’t too drunk to forget this—the hope that he’s reading this right—flutters wildly against his ribcage. He grips Brad’s shoulder, just firmly enough to get Brad to look at him.

"I need you safe, too, you know."

Brad looks up at him, fingers stilling in the sand.

"And maybe, if you hadn’t avoided me, I could’ve done this earlier."

"Do what—" Brad murmurs, but it’s swallowed up by Nate’s mouth on his. He opens his mouth to Nate’s without hesitation, and Nate settles closer, pushing Brad back into the sand. Brad's warm and solid underneath him, fingers clenching and unclenching in Nate's shirt. He can hear the party dying down, down the sandy path and across the road, but it’s drowned out by the sound of his own name, murmured against the skin of his neck.

Brad’s soft sigh quiets the last quiverings of frustration in Nate’s chest.

The guys find them there four hours later, curled together loosely as the sun comes up and covered in a layer of sand. Ray coughs and covers Walt’s eyes, tugging him away laughing. Nate sits up and rubs at his gritty eyes, and Brad looks for all the world like he’s ready to bolt, until Nate knocks their shoulders together.

Brad smiles back at him, soft and sure, and Nate knows they’ll be okay.


End file.
